Final Ten Problems

To the south of the mess hall lies the ruins of what must have once been some form of barracks or living facility.The building, however, has been gutted by fire, leaving only ashes and blackened timber—the result of improper safety precautions in storage of explosives that eventually led to the abandonment of the entire island as an unsafe workplace. The building was clearly rather large, with the wreckage indicating a number of distinct rooms. The entire place is quietly ominous, a situation not helped by the fact that the layout of the ruins makes it impossible to keep an eye on the entirety of the surroundings at once.
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General Goose
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Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 2:51 pm

Final Ten Problems

#1

Post by General Goose »

((Chuck Soileaux continued from There and Back Again.))

Chuck had found what looked like a mirror. He couldn't tell if it once had been a mirror, or even some other glass object. All that mattered was that it was vaguely capable of reflections. Sure, you had to approach it from the right angle. And the dirt meant that, at most, you could only get a disjointed quarter of your face reflected, so if you fancied a full picture, you had to constantly move your face about. Try and build up a full picture that way.

Chuck was doing that now, looking over his features. Doing an...assessment. He looked like a mess. That tussle in the mud had left him covered in mud, and dirt, and dried blood. Made him look like a mess. He couldn't tell whether something was wet or dried, or mud or blood, from the poor makeshift mirror alone. Had to constantly touch his face too, to complete the image. Found a few cuts that way, but small ones. More scrapes and abrasions than deep wounds.

Still, warranted a full clean. On his forehead, stuck unkempt matted hair. On his cheeks, dried blood, brittle to the touch, Chuck's long and serrated nails absentmindedly picking them away, sometimes taking off rough skin beneath. The back of his neck, almost caked in mud from the fight with Saachi. He couldn't wipe all that away, Chuck quickly realised. Would use all his resources, leave him with no wipes or cleaning stuff for future wounds. And, at this point, Chuck was worried about infections again.

Yes, he hoped Maxwell's plan worked. But if it didn't? Well, Chuck didn't want to go home, and then die of an infection.

So he cleaned up around any skin that felt...cut. Especially his eye.

It was a joke, really. Chuck had insisted to himself that he was...cannon fodder. That he would get meaning from his time on the island by being the sacrificial lamb, that he would be a mere functionary, enabling the grander heroics of those around him. Lance, Kyran, Michael, Scarlett...all far more suited for heroism than he was. All far more deserved the chance to destroy this game in the final stages than he did. And God knows how many other students, brave boys and girls from across his year, who would have done more with this opportunity than Chuck had done.

And the only injury he'd got? Some scrapes, and what had turned out to be a fucking minor cut over his cheek and brow (and that was friendly fire).

Only reason Chuck could see for that was cowardice. He'd replayed the events of the past week, still in far too much vivid a detail than he would have liked, and came to that conclusion. He'd survived by being a fucking coward.

It was then he noticed another injury.

Oh, that was a fucking joke. His hat. Missing one of the Boo ears. A week on this death island, and the only permanent scar was that his favourite hat had been damaged. He took it off, examined it with his own eyes. It was now a stained, forlorn piece of apparel, the face on the front still visible, but the white cloth on the sides and back now concealed with all manner of dirt. Chuck let out a small laugh.

Took out a bandage, cut a little white triangle out, stuck it to the front.

"Good as fucking new," he muttered, to nobody in particular, angry at himself. Even this was something that could be fixed.

The improvised ear fell off as he placed the hat back on his head. Chuck looked at his shoulder, brushed it off like a piece of dandruff. He had been too damn lucky. Too fucking lucky. What was the SOTF equivalent of a First World problem? Chuck wasn't sure, but he definitely had it right now.

He picked up his bags and left the scene. Needed to do something with his time left.

((Chuck Soileaux continued in Void.))
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